Alchemy
by The Owl's Pen
Summary: With every day and every smile from Susan, Edmund, and Lucy, Peter felt they were drawing closer to something, some Golden Age that the four of them together could secure.


_**Author's Notes**_

**Disclaimer: **C.S. Lewis owns The Chronicles of Narnia, not I!

**Rated: _T, _**just to be safe

**Hi Everyone! I wrote this little drabble while avoiding work on "A History of the Healing Cordial of Queen Lucy." *smacks own wrist* Bad me! But, it was a lot of fun to write and has plenty of interaction between Edmund and Peter, my two faves in the world of Narnia, plus lots of backstory on all four Pevensies. It is set during the Golden Age of Narnia. **

**_Now, _here is disclaimer number 2: ****I apologize to those of you who adhere strictly to cannon, but the one thing I must fudge on is the Pevensies' ages. Between the books, the movies, and how old the actors _appear _in the movies, I'm all confused! For all I know, I am guessing correctly, but I'm not sure. So I've worked out my own formula for their ages. Peter (14 in LWW) is one year older than Susan (13 in LWW), who is two years older than Edmund (11 in LWW), who is two years older than Lucy (9 in LWW). From here on out, that is the arrangement for all of my Narnia Fics.**

**Enjoy, and please review!**

**_Alchemy_**

_"Bother!_ These _boots_…"

"Ow!" Peter gave a short yelp as Edmund clamped a hand down on his shoulder, using his brother as a pillar while he fussed with his bootlaces. "Easy on the claws there, Ed!" He grimaced as his younger brother loosened his grip slightly.

"Sorry," Edmund apologized. "These dratted things are murder on my feet!" He began tugging at the offending boot, making faces all the while. "Why in Aslan's name I agreed to get all trussed up like this in brocade and fancy shoes…"

"Well, what would you rather have worn?"

Edmund yanked the laces of his brand-new boot. "My riding boots, thank you."

Peter's laughter carried over the crowded feasting hall. _"Susan _would have been murder on _you!"_

It was the Queen's eighteenth birthday, and a gala was being held. Guests from all over Narnia and neighboring Archenland flooded Castle Cair Paravel on this night, to honor Queen Susan the Gentle. The great feasting hall had been transformed from its usual golden stateliness into what Susan had called a more "romantic" atmosphere. Fragrant boughs of Archenland evergreen trees (_not _of the talking variety) hung from the rafters, lanterns and garlands twined in their midst. Incense floated in the air. Faun's flutes cooed and warbled, Dryads and Nightingales sang ancient songs, and one funny little dwarf in a peaked white cap played a solemn stringed instrument while tapping his foot against a skin drum. In the middle of the confusion of fruits and sweets and edible flowers that beckoned from the banquet table, a tall birthday cake – piped and sugared and embellished to rival Castle Cair Paravel itself – held court. Candles burned in every available corner, glittering off of the gold and silver table settings. But nothing could have glowed more brightly than the face of Susan herself.

Susan Pevensie of Finchley had longed for an eighteenth birthday such as this, back in England. But, being one who didn't really expect daydreams to come true, she had resigned herself to a small birthday dinner if the war was still on, and perhaps a quiet party with her school mates. To find herself a Queen in Narnia and able to plan lavish affairs such as this had been the delight of Susan. Nothing could be denied her this night. Hence, Edmund's consent to "get all trussed up" in attire of Susan's own choosing, how ever much he might hate his new green-on-blue brocaded tunic and dress boots. Peter had allowed Edmund to mutter dark complaints in his right ear, and Susan to twitter instructions for the High King's clothing in his left. Then he slipped on his own wine-colored tunic and soft boots (perfectly comfortable, he had smirked to Edmund), and gravely escorted Susan into the feasting hall for presentation to the crowd.

He never recalled Susan looking lovelier. The Queen wore a dark velvet dress of rich purple, embellished with gold threads and beading all down the length of her train (it had taken hours for her to teach Peter how _not _to tread on the thing when escorting her). Her dark hair was woven up under her crown, and a thread-like chain of gold hung from her neck. Her blue eyes snapped like candle flame as she swept through her birthday affair, excitement growing with every taste of the dinner, every syllable of the well-wishing speeches, every step of the dancing that she was now glorying in with a handsome man of the Archenland court. Yet through it all she was dignified, gracious, and lovely.

"She's in her element, you know," Peter murmured as his sister fluttered by in the arms of her partner.

"That's fine. She can stay in it. I just wish _I _didn't have to get served up on a crystal dish as well," Edmund fussed.

"Oh Ed!" Peter laughed. "Her birthday is only once a year, you know, and her eighteenth only once in her life."

"Trust her to find a way to do this again next year. Or for Lucy's eighteenth."

"Or yours?" Peter suggested.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "Aslan forbid!"

"And what _should _you like for the auspicious occasion that is, if I recall right, less than two years away?"

Edmund pondered for a moment. "A beach supper with you three. A ride up the mountains with Philip. A long conversation with Aslan. And perhaps a good detective novel, just to round things out."

Peter shook his head. "Susan will be so disappointed."

Edmund merely grinned.

At sixteen, King Edmund the Just was what Peter was relieved to call a typical teenager. Battle scarred and ingrained with diplomacy, yes, but he was also full of humor and boyish desires. His was a quiet spirit, and he often went off to be alone and "just think." His unexpected laughter was a delight to his siblings. Edmund loved to hold mock sword fights, and to swim, and to explore, and most of all to ride Philip the Talking Horse, his Narnian best friend. He preferred rough-spun tunics and breeches to his court attire, and comfortably worn riding boots. Susan, disgusted by his desire to remain the plain member of the family, had once attempted to make him over. Edmund had objected. Strongly. So much so that he took Philip on a week-long retreat to Ed's own private cabin in the Western Woods without informing Susan. She panicked. Peter chuckled that their brother was just off for a jaunt and surely they'd see him again when he felt the danger of being dandified was past. Ed came back happy, rumpled, and an inch taller, with a tale of having met a friendly young giant who helped him build a second room onto the stone cabin. Susan gave up, simply saying that maybe in a few years he'd grow up to have some sense. Edmund retorted that he had sense enough to run from those little hangman's nooses she called cravats, thank you, and from now on Susan could keep her ideas of fashion to herself.

But the next day, Edmund quietly slipped into his crown and royal robes, and journeyed to Calormene on a diplomatic mission. For although he delighted in thwarting Susan's plans to dress him up, he knew the value of a powerful image when dealing with a tentative enemy. The sweep of his rich cloak over his straight young back was as effective as the stern manner in which he spoke. King Edmund of the burning dark eyes commanded a certain amount of respect whether in court clothes or glittering armor. And in a battle, Peter would never have wanted anyone else at his right hand. Even though he still hadn't mastered the art of hiding his anxiety for his brother, Edmund's warrior half never backed down until the High King either called a retreat or declared victory.

Edmund, Peter reflected as he cast a sidewise glance at his brother, was growing up to be rather impressive looking, with his curling black hair and serious brown eyes. Though a trifle too thin for his height, and still rather pale from his dealings with the White Witch. It worried Peter a little, for being the eldest of the family made him intensely aware of his siblings' health and happiness.

Ed chose that moment to meet Peter's eyes. He grimaced at the familiar expression of concern on the other's face. "Now what?" he demanded.

_Let it go, _Peter told himself. This was no night for fussing. Now _teasing _on the other hand… he grinned and rubbed his knuckles against Edmund's jaw, garnering an indignant yelp from his brother. "Still haven't worked up a good enough crop of peach fuzz to use a blade on yet, eh Brother?"

"I'd rather have a clean jaw than that yak's pelt on _your _face," Edmund sputtered, batting the High King's hands away.

"You're just envious," Peter replied as he smoothed the trim golden beard he had worn since their last long campaign in Calormene. "Lucy thinks it's grand. And any way, you don't object to _Aslan's _mane."

"Aslan's mane is soft as spring and smells like honey," Edmund pointed out. "And it doesn't cause permanent injury when he kisses you, unlike _your_ unfortunate clump of prickle bush. _And don't try to kiss me!" _he yelled, ducking out of the way as his brother wickedly attempted to do just that.

Peter grinned and settled for a hug. "Just you wait Ed, and you'll see how much easier it is to grow a beard than shave every day."

Edmund shook his head even as he leaned into his brother's arm. "You've gotten _old, _Pete."

High King Peter the Magnificent could not deny that he was, indeed, getting older, though not perhaps so much in body as in spirit. He was taller than Edmund, though not so lithe. He had put on muscle in the past few years, grown out his hair and a short beard, and had no objections to letting Susan choose the best silhouettes and colors for him. At nineteen, he had as little interest in clothes as Edmund did, but a great deal more patience with Susan. And he was committed to any little trick of appearance that would make him look more like the confident, level-headed High King he wanted so much to be.

In truth, he worried.

Peter woke every morning with Narnia and Aslan on his heart. He wanted to be a good king and brother, but even after five years of ruling he wasn't sure if he was doing a fair job. He rode into battles with Edmund, stamping out the remnants of the White Witch's army and claiming the Lone Islands for their kingdom. He parleyed with Archenland and Calormene, Susan providing the role of hostess while helping him to sway the inclinations of the rulers of other lands. And in his own land, Peter relied on Lucy to discover the needs and hopes of the creatures of the wood, and the field, and the air, and the spirit folk of Narnia. He was more the bookish type than the bossy type, he realized, and he often retreated to Cair Paravel's library when overwhelmed. Then Edmund would come drag him out to the practice grounds for a match, and Peter would feel the exuberance of sparring with his brother in the clear Narnian sun flush the worries from his veins. Aslan had given him a job to do, and with every day and every smile from his brother and sisters, Peter felt they were drawing closer to something, some Golden Age that the four of them together could secure. He ruled over his three younger siblings, but Edmund, Lucy, and Susan ruled his heart. He had told Aslan that once.

"As long as you remember that," the Lion had rumbled, smiling, "Then, Son of Adam, you shall be doing _exactly _as I wish."

It had been enough to make Peter stand up straight and proud… and enough to make him wish he could be fourteen and just a kid again. Lucy, he decided, was the only one of the four who _could _still be called a child, and didn't seem to mind it. Peter indulged himself by babying her, since the other two – Susan in particular - objected to too much coddling.

Still, he couldn't help but reprimand when Ed scooped up his fifth chocolate cordial of the night and began eating it. With his bare hands.

"Ed!" he scolded. "By the Mane!"

Edmund rolled his eyes and mumbled around the mouthful of sweet, which had cracked open at the first bite. "Come off it, Pete. It's just chocolate."

"Yes, and it's all over your fingers. And your chin," Peter added, watching a dribble of syrup slip over Edmund's lip. "Susan shall have a fit. Kings are supposed to use plates and utensils during fancy affairs, you know."

"Rot!" Ed retorted, having the grace to wipe his fingers on a napkin. "Did it ever occur to you, Peter, that if we _weren't _kings and queens, we wouldn't give a moment's thought to eating candy with our fingers? Which, by the way, is how one is _supposed _to eat sweets."

"Wipe your chin."

"Instead," Edmund continued, brushing lightly at his mouth with the napkin, "We treat chocolate with a knife, as if it is a fiefdom to be divided up and distributed amongst serfs."

"That's very poetic." Peter applied his thumb to a smudge of chocolate that rested near Ed's lip.

"It's _unnatural," _Edmund countered. "Do you remember eating chocolate in Spare Oom? Do you remember using a knife and fork on it? _Ever? _Do you realize, Peter, that you have probably had more experience eating candy with your bare hands than your three younger siblings? And Susan – _Susan, _the neatest person in _existence – _has likely had more candy with her fingers than I! What about Lucy, Peter? She only got to eat chocolate like that for what, nine years? Nine years! Imagine such deprivation in the life of a child!"

"Somehow I don't think it keeps her up nights," Peter responded in an amused tone. "I think she's quite happy. And normal."

"Just you wait," Edmund said darkly. "It's bound to crop up sometime."

Peter chuckled. "Relax, Ed. Lucy's still got plenty of time to be a kid."

Lucy was only fourteen, still a baby as far as he was concerned. She gloried in being as full of life as possible. From the moment she woke she sought out friends, both new and old. Fauns, Birds, Dryads, Rabbits… they all ran to Lucy when she entered the room, and she threw her arms around them, loving the spirit of perpetual spring that clung to Aslan's faithful ones. And there was no need to force her into schooling. Lucy wanted as much knowledge of Narnian lore as she could hold. Especially since such lore ususally resulted in reenactments on the castle lawn. She was quick to jump into any game, always up for a mock sword-fight, and constantly ruining her good dresses by "playing" with various Narnians. It would seem Susan had cause for despair in her younger siblings, what with their tendency to settle for plain riding habits as the garment of choice. Just that night Lucy had torn her trailing canary-yellow velvet gown by clowning through a waltz with young Corin.

Yet in some ways Lucy was older and wiser than the other three put together. Peter recalled that a little over a year ago, not long after her thirteenth birthday, Lucy had come to her brothers and sisters with a glowing face. She had offered a vow to Aslan, she told them, that she would take no other love than him for her life long. The Lion had been pleased, and Lucy's joy since then had been boundless. Every day it seemed she found more and more affection in her Aslan's eyes, even if he had not been at Cair for months (though Peter often suspected that he visited Lucy privately, coming and going unseen by the others). And he had once overheard Edmund asking, in a low voice full of wonder, if Lucy thought _he _could ever have such a relationship with Aslan.

"He is there for the taking, Edmund," Lucy had replied, delighted. "All you need do is ask."

Peter had been pleased, but also a mite concerned. The throne would need heirs some day, and while he was confident Susan would find a match with no trouble, by rights _he _should be the one to produce a son. If anything should happen to him before that was possible, Edmund and his heirs were next in line. Peter would never want to keep his brother from Aslan's calling, but… well, it was something they had never discussed, he realized. He supposed he thought they would all just keep on living and reigning until… _something _happened. Peter frowned. Then again, maybe it wasn't to be worried over. Aslan had called them into Narnia when the land needed kings and queens, and perhaps the fate of who should rule next rested in the Lion's paws.

Certainly it wouldn't be an heir of Lucy's, even if she hadn't made her promise to Aslan. The Archenlander men had ignored her in a good-natured fashion, complimenting the dazzling Queen Susan on her "sweet, innocent little sister," and saying nothing more on the subject. Peter stifled a yawn and leaned against Edmund's shoulder. _Thank Aslan, _he thought,_ we only have to keep the wolves away from __**one**__ little sis –_

Edmund dug his elbow sharply into Peter's side.

Peter jerked away in surprise. "Ow! Ed!"

Edmund shook his head, eyes grave, and nodded toward the banquet table.

Lucy had returned to the party, wearing a floor-length frock of striped strawberry pink satin. Not quite the thing for this formal affair, Peter noted. He remembered the cajoling Susan had done to get her sister into the velvet yellow gown, claiming that she wanted Lucy to _really _look like a Queen for this affair. Whatever that meant. Lucy had given in to her sister's birthday wish, and submitted to have her hair braided and her best jewels decked upon her. But now the torn dress must be somewhere in Lucy's chambers, and she had donned the pink. Her rich chestnut hair, having come loose anyway, now cascaded below her crown, that and a smile the only other adornments she wore. Peter was pleased at the sight of her. She didn't look a Queen. She looked like Lucy. She looked like a girl, like the Dryad of a young cherry tree, with eyes like a spring sky...

... and cheeks that were softly pink as she tried to decline an offer to dance from an Archenlander fellow who had looked at her in astonishment when she re-entered the room, then rushed to attend her.

Edmund nudged him again. "Say Pete, didn't Lu promise you this dance?"

The High King was about to reply that nothing of the sort had been arranged, when the insistent man caught Lucy's hand in his own. Peter frowned, his fingers instinctively stretching for the hilt of his sword, the sword that had been left upstairs in his chambers for this night of merriment. "Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I believe I did."

"Well then." King Edmund's dark eyes shone as he too rested a hand at the hip where his own absent sword should have been. "If you, High King, will secure the damsel, I shall endeavor to cut off the enemy from the left flank."

"With a good will, Brother," Peter replied.

They strode forward side by side, as they always did in battle.

**"The Owl's Pen" *chuckles* **

**The title is, of course, a direct reference to the Golden Age of Narnia. I really don't know where the whole chocolate conversation came from, but I needed a connector between segments of story and that is what resulted! Edmund calling Peter's beard a "yak's pelt" was inspired by the commentary of "Prince Caspian," in which Andrew Adamson explained that Trumpkin's beard was made of yak fur... ok, so maybe "inspired" is a little too strong a word, but hey! *grins* Please review!**


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